Awake My Soul
by Em Paradise
Summary: "When John returned from Afghanistan he didn't expect to find peace in London." Song fic to Awake My Soul by Mumford and Sons. Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall. Please feel free to RnR.


**Awake My Soul**

**Authors Note: **My first foray into the Sherlock fandom! I've had this story on the back burner for a while now. I originally had the idea a few days after the end of season two, while listen to Mumford and Sons _Awake My Soul _it just seemed like the perfect song for Sherlock and John. I'd really like to know what you think, so please feel free to send me a review and let me know. It's currently un-betaed so apologises for any grammar mistakes that may be lurking within.

I don't own _Sherlock Holmes _or _Awake My Soul_.

**Awake My Soul**

_How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes_

_I struggle to find any truth in your lies_

_And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know_

_My weakness I feel I must finally show._

When John returned from Afghanistan, accompanied by a ruined shoulder and a nagging limp, he didn't expect to find peace in London. He went to London for the noise and crowds and chaos and the life that filled the capital, but he felt disconnected to it all. He'd left a part of his soul in the desert and he no longer knew how to define himself. Who was he if he wasn't John H. Watson, Army Doctor? A lost solider longing for the battlefield, feeling too guilty to join the living when he'd seen so many die. The last thing he had expected to find was a home and a best friend, all wrapped up in the enigma of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

_Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all_

_But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall_

_Lend me your eyes I can change what you see_

_But your soul you must keep, totally free._

Sherlock had opened his eyes to a new London. And yes the man could be insufferable. Rude and selfish and oblivious to everything outside of his ego's little bubble. People asked him 'why?' and 'how?' and John found his couldn't answer. How could he explain that he had found a kindred spirit in the self-proclaimed sociopath? John had seen Sherlock sulk in a black funk for days at a time. Wrapped up in his silk dressing gown, he didn't eat or talk, unless it was to snap at anyone who tried to approach him. Sharp insults and hurtful deductions were thrown around the Baker Street living room. But when the storm passed, John had seen the look that came into Sherlock's eyes, the disbelief that he hadn't driven John away and a spark of gratitude that his flatmate had stayed, sitting in his chair by the fireplace.

_Awake my soul..._

_Awake my soul..._

John had learnt to recognise the small gestures from Sherlock, a shared glance of understanding, the slight slowing of a pace when the limp reared its ugly head. The soft melody of his violin, playing at two a.m. when John found himself tossing and turning with memories of the war. How, over tea and pastries with a client (supplied by the indispensible Mrs Hudson) Sherlock would selfishly grab at anything on the plate even if the client had made a move to chose it. Yet John's favourite jam tart would remain untouched, even guarded by the other man until the ex-soldier wanted it. John found himself willing to go wherever the detective led him. Within a few days of their first meeting he had raised his gun –_First Do No Harm- _and killed for Sherlock. To save Sherlock. So he had taken the hand he had been offered and together they had run and run and for one giddy moment John had thought they were invincible.

_How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes_

_I struggle to find any truth in your lies_

_And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know_

_My weakness I feel I must finally show. _

Until the spider had climbed down from his web and John had felt his world shatter all over again. He had gazed up at the silhouette of his best friend, reaching up a hand as if to close the dizzying distance just as Sherlock reached out a hand of his own. Never, in his many years as a Doctor and Solider, had John felt so helpless as when he stood gazing up to the roof of St Bart's, phone pressed to his ear as his only life line. He had listened to Sherlock lie, waiting for the detective to reveal the trick that he was spinning. Waiting for the fond quirk of the lips and the insult to John's intelligence that would follow for being so slow to pick up on Sherlock's plan.

_In these bodies we will live_

_In these bodies we will die_

_Where you invest your love_

_You invest your life_

Afterwards had been a blur. He had barely noticed what had crashed into him, making his ears ring and his vision blur –a bike messenger?- so focused he had been to get to Sherlock's side. Where he was meant to be, where he should have been. Instinct and training had screamed at him to reach for a pulse with shaking hands, eyes drawn to the bright blood that stained the dark curls.

_In these bodies we will live_

_In these bodies we will die_

_Where you invest your love_

_You invest your life_

The funeral had been a quiet affair. Thankful for once for the power and reach Mycroft had at his disposal, John had stood with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade on either side of him, as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Only they three were present to mark the memorial of the great and good man. Molly had tearfully explained that she had said her goodbye already and that she thought the service would be too painful. Mycroft, whether aware of the blame that John placed on his shoulders or not willing to publicly display his grief, did not attend. Although John was sure he had seen an umbrella clad man lurking among the trees.

_Awake my soul..._

_Awake my soul..._

_Awake my soul..._

_For you were made to meet your maker. _

When John returned from Afghanistan he didn't expect to find the best and the wisest man that he would ever know. He did not expect to be standing beside the grave of his best friend, reaching out to touch the cold marble that was all he had left after eighteen months of wonder and excitement. He didn't expect to find himself lost once more, dropped into the grey barren void of a man without a purpose. Nothing except a final plea, one more chance for the Worlds Only Consulting Detective to spin the impossible.

_Awake my soul..._

_Awake my soul..._

_Awake my soul..._

"...one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead. Would you do that? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this."

_For you were made to meet your maker_

_You were made to meet your maker. _


End file.
